


Prayers

by Estel, scifichicx



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estel/pseuds/Estel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifichicx/pseuds/scifichicx
Summary: Hundreds of years ago, Quentin chose to become the Jailer of Blackspire and magic was returned to the world. In all that time, he took solace in his faith in Our Lady of the Tree.





	1. Strength of and Old Oak

_Lady, bless your servant this day. Lend me the strength to fulfill my duties._

He prayed to her every day.

In the still moments when his charge slept or found something that distracted him for more than an instant, the Jailer of Blackspire sent off a quiet prayer. She was out there somewhere healing the sick and bringing light to the lost. Perhaps every so often, his silent offerings reached her.

Our Lady of the Tree. Goddess of Penance and Keeper of Questers.

Her blessing allowed him to fulfill his destiny. Hundreds of years ago, as a self he had long forgotten, he knew her. She had a bright smile and a mischievous wrinkle in her nose. She had dark hair that flowed like water and a laugh that could raise the spirits of even the dead.

Julia.

Between games of hide-and-seek, endless hours of minor illusions and sleight of hand, and days of laying with the abandoned creation of the gods, the Jailer had lost the man that knew her then. He had flickered out. His name was Quentin. His charge knew this, but in a place without others, names became somewhat meaningless.

But she persisted in his mind.

_Today, Lady, give me the strength of an old oak that I might shelter this lost creature from the world and the world from it._

Though none of his days were the same, it all blended into a malaise of dim, fire lit rooms, the echoing laughter of an amused, ancient child, and the mechanical persistence needed to fulfill his unending duty.

There had been others. One once tried to penetrate Blackspire. He spent days banging at the gates, yelling for Quentin to come out.

There was the Traveler who visited once. He was bearded and aged. He brought tokens from a lifetime he had left behind. Crowns and books. The crowns were long claimed by his charge and the books were read, but would each eventually be devoured by the creature in his care.

_Today, Lady, bless me with your grace. Without you I fear I might lay down and sleep._


	2. The Oldest of Acolytes

_“Can’t you feel his heart?”_

A goddess was concerned with matters beyond the comprehension of mortals. Our Lady of the Tree knew that prayers were not as important as the great, unfathomable swing of creation into entropy. Indeed the math was something profound and the balance was a daily chore. Still, she knew she wasn’t just a being of energy. Something tugged at her core; something that made her push to ask for more miracles, something that made her favor helping good people over maintaining the fabric of reality. That part of her had been getting stronger. The feeling that something was left, like a kettle on the stove, chewed away at her curiosity. 

She was supposed to be building a weather system for a fresh world. She kept insisting she’d rather fix damaged systems in established worlds. Sometimes, she could sneak away and tend to a long neglected reality. Her heart ached for the suffering that echoed through every reality with sentient life. She heard the soft murmur of infinite prayers popping like bubbles into her consciousness, but it was true that a prayer addressed to her directly would always be louder. 

And this one’s voice always caught her attention. He was the oldest of her acolytes and she thought perhaps he’d been her brother or her son in her human life. She could never quite remember. She wasn’t supposed to go to him because her time was too valuable to waste. But The Lady of the Tree also had a rebellious reputation, and she’d meant to go visit this loyal friend for quite some time. Time passes so quickly and it was easy to become distracted by “very important things.” Perhaps she had waited too long. A sensation of heart ache and exhaustion drew her to his side. 

Just like that, she was in the world again. Her skin prickled at the danger of being in Blackspire. One of the only things that could completely destroy her ran around like a child on the playground here. It made her alert and she felt the deja vu memory of mortality and humanity wash over her.


	3. The Sensation of Living

The Jailer’s eyes snapped open from his momentary rest. The Monster had fallen asleep in his arms and remained there contently, but the Jailer could feel the very air of Blackspire change. There was a pure white light for a moment that had drowned out the flickering flames that kept their world forever in a dwindling sunset.

Gingerly he slipped out from beneath the creature’s head. It was a practiced escape. Silently, he stepped away from the large bed as his eyes scanned every inch of the blackened marble room.

His hand moved to the sword that hung from his hip. The weight of it had become a part of him. At any moment, he knew things could shift as they just had and he would need to be prepared to fend off any one who might offset the balance of their existence here.

The unsteadiness that he discovered, however, was his own.

As if from a memory, she was there, standing in the middle of the great hall. Immediately, his hand slipped from his hilt and his eyes welled with tears and he dropped to his knees. “My Lady…”

At the sight of him, his name and a life of memories were at the tip of her tongue. She had said goodbye to him once. He wasn’t supposed to be there. She wanted to remember his name. She walked to him and gently combed her fingers through his hair. It felt… familiar. He felt familiar. Gracefully, she knelt in front of him and gathered him into her arms. She was also the goddess of really knowing when someone needed a hug. 

As he was pulled into her embrace, an urgent shot of panic forced him into a moment of clarity. After only a moment of what felt like the most healing embrace in existence, he fell back and sat on his heels. “You should not be here,” he muttered, his eyes to the floor as he lightly shook his head. His greying hairs drifted in the warm, sooty air.

She frowned at this strange behavior. “You asked for me,” she reminded him gently. She didn’t like seeing him hurry to put distance between them. It made her… sad. “Your heart hurts, you’re tired, and you were searching for strength.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips. Her essence radiated power, warmth and love. 

He couldn’t stop crying. The tears spilled over his cheeks and soaked into his black shirt. “I-” he stammered. “My prayers were for your blessings.” When he spoke, it was soft and raspy. “But it is not safe for even you here.”

She drew close and kissed his forehead. When she did, a swirl of energy lept from her and enfolded them. It was the sensation of grace; a deep and profound calm that resonated through all life. “The creature sleeps now. I can feel it. We’re both safe right now.” She pulled back and leaned her forehead against his. She could almost remember something. Was it important? 

Her lips somehow poured an elixir of relaxation over him. It welled up from his toes and trickled down his spine, causing his shoulders to drop and his head to spin. Grace, as there was no other word for it, lifted the weariness from him. The Jailer took in a deep breath. Even the air felt pure and clean. All words abandoned him in this state of wonder.

Time was such a curious thing. Seconds or eternities may have passed as she settled into the beautiful, heartbreaking sensation of human emotion. It pulled her limbs out to wrap around this weary jailer and hold him; to comfort him along this exhausting journey. She did want to remember this notion dancing at the edge of her consciousness. The longer she held on, feeling the sharp bone beneath thin flesh and the certain rise and fall of breath’s passage, the closer she felt to something warm and dear to her.

“Julia…” he breathed her name. It echoed in his head so loud it escaped through his lips.

Her eyes snapped open and her arms involuntarily tightened around him. “Quentin?” His name rushed out like a punch to the gut. She hung onto the name and the feeling it gave her. She chased the cracked and flaking tendrils of memory from so long ago. He was supposed to be long gone, like everything else from her life as Julia. But he was still here and he prayed to her, reminding her to take care of the lost and the oppressed. Her emotions were remembering before the rest of her, so she just held on to him.

Engulfed in her embrace, he leaned against her, being consumed by the familiarity and the calm she brought. “I- I can’t believe you’re here.” Suddenly he felt the weight of the years he’d spent in this place on him. He’d forgotten the use of names, but hearing her call the one that once belonged to him filled him with unfamiliar mortality for a moment. He had outlived his own life, but had hardly aged a day, spare his hair that had nearly gone white.

So softly, her voice trembling, she replied, “I forgot. I forgot I wanted to be here.” She had forgotten him and the friends and the family and the life. There had been so much to do. She could feel a pull from the powers-that-be to put that distance back, but the powers could kindly go fuck themselves for a fucking minute. Nothing was going to pull her away from her best friend right now. 

The tears continued to trickle down his face as he finally looked at her. There it was, the wicked smile and the little wrinkle of her nose. “Why now?” He could feel his mind grinding awake, knocking rust from old unused gears. Thoughts outside of how to amuse an unpredictable monster began to trickle in.

She finally moved away enough to look at him. She wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “Because I felt you giving up.” She brushed a strand of faded hair from his brow and tucked it behind his ear. “We both know you can’t.” 

Immediately, he nodded. “I know. I’m just…” he sucked in a breath. “I’m so very tired.” His eyes glistened, but behind them was an emptiness like a hollowed tree trunk in the forest. “That’s why I pray.”

“I can help you.” She took his hands in hers and pressed his palms together. Between them was the sensation of warmth and then a scratchy, heavy thing shoved itself into existence. _The World in the Walls_ , with it’s black and green cover, worn pages and particular smell was in his hands. This was Quentin’s exact book from thousands of years ago, pulled from the place where lost things that matter to people go and placed lovingly back into his care. 

When it appeared, he gasped. Much like the book, memories came from nowhere and thundered in his head. It was Fillory.

From somewhere deep in the fortress, a faint echo of a lock being clicked heavily open could be heard. “This place has so many empty rooms now.” She smiled warmly at Quentin, “They should go to use.” She stood and offered Q her hand. 

He was still marveling at the book in his hands when his hand unconsciously slipped into hers. It drew him in without even opening it. Glimpses of faces flickered behind his eyes: the man at the gates, the Traveler, and others he could not place - but the tears became for them.

Julia’s fingers slipped between Quentin’s as she pulled him along after her. She guided him down the hall and through a door that had previously been sealed from decay and thick layers of dust, but was now fresh and clean. It had a key sticking out of the lock, both shining like they were new. “This is for you-” She turned the knob and the door swung open. Warm Fillorian spring and the scent of flowers blew in from the windows. The neglected room was now an inviting library, it’s tall walls crammed with all manner of books. The two large windows were now charmed to look out onto the rainbow bridge. Birds from the other side of this world could be heard chirping about. She stood aside so Quentin could take a real look around. 

The room was so bright he had to shield his eyes for a moment with the first volume of _Fillory and Further_ that he clung tightly to. His jaw dropped at the sight of the clean room filled wall-to-wall with books. Quentin stood, awestruck for the second time today, soaking it in.

The look on his face told her everything she needed to know. “This place is for you. It exists here, but also nowhere. It’s not meant for your charge so it’s best not to be here when the creature is awake. Not being able to get in could… frustrate it.” She could have just made a charm appear, but this was a special place. It was part of her “goddess office;” an infinite pocket dimension just for the Lady of the Tree. Here in her magical realm, the books would never get old. Anything Quentin would ever want to read would come here for him. Tucked beneath one of the windows, an open chest was filled with board games, dice and cards. Between the windows was a fire place, ever burning despite the perfect temperature, and in front of the fire place was a simple square cafe table with a chair on either side. At the far wall, an open doorway, with a gossamer lavender curtain divided the room from somewhere. Quentin knew that door wasn’t meant for him.

His lips, still agape in awe, turned up at the corners. The effort actually hurt a little it had been so long since he had done it. Everything was so foreign it felt like a hallucination or a dream, but somehow in it was nested a familiarity that he likened to a child knowing his mother’s face at birth. Another cascade of memories flooded in at the thought.

Mother. Child.

As soon as it had come it was gone again and he reached out to touch the shelf nearest to him, partially for the experience of touching books and largely to make certain it was tangible. A bubble of emotion pushed up through his throat and burst from him as a simple “thank you.”

Jules knew their time was drawing thin. “I can’t stay, but if you need me-” She indicated the curtained doorway, “Just call for me. Don’t go through, just call my name.” She grasped his hands in hers and smiled at him. Her brow furrowed, chasing a thought, and then Julia reached out her right hand and rested it on Q’s chest. She gave him power this way once, so very long ago. She could feel the echo of it like a brand on his aura. 

Her touch radiated through him and, much like the tension had melted away before, so did the years. They were suddenly standing in a familiar place. A cottage. _The_ Cottage. Home.

Everyone was there. Julia stood before him with that very same, peaceful expression on her face. In this intimate moment, he staircase barricaded the pair of them from everyone else. In the next room Quentin knew he was there. The man at the gates. Eliot. So was Alice, the fox woman that sometimes danced across his mind. The names flooded in: Margo, Kady, and Josh. The Traveler, Penny, was close by as well.

There was a melancholy weight to the whole world in this moment. Like air heavy with moisture just before the rain.

In a blink it was gone again, but the feeling resonated in him and it left him needing to catch his breath.

Julia blinked at him, a strange look passing over her. She pulled Quentin back into a hug, but not the hug of an all-loving goddess. She hugged him like her long lost best friend; the name to the humanity still sparking through every choice she made. He wasn’t her acolyte, he was her partner. The journey that led them to this moment was always a shared one. The memory echoed- _“I’ll miss you too.”_ Julia held him tighter, remembering the sensation of living, with all it’s pain and boredom and wonder. 

Quentin Coldwater, the Fool, the King, the Jailer of Blackspire, the man who had lived so many lifetimes, bit his lip, feeling time escaping them and his eternal duty calling again. It would be awake soon. “I’ll call for you,” he promised after a moment. “I’ll still pray, too.”

She gave him a squeeze and a quick kiss on the cheek before letting him go. “You’d better,” She replied with a smirk and a wink. It took a long moment before she finally forced herself to step away. She hurried to the curtain and glanced back at Q before she slipped through. 

“Goodbye, Julia,” he said. He felt his voice wander after her and trail off into some divine abyss.

Then he found himself alone in the beautiful library. It was time for him to leave, but he couldn’t resist cracking open the green book he still held in his hand.

_From a young age, Martin Chatwin had a gloomy nature. And to combat his melancholy, he would lose himself in stories of wonder…_ As he read, he could feel the words fill him with something that had become utterly foreign: joy.


	4. The Goddess' Blessing

_Today, Lady, I met the Chatwin children again (in the book, of course) and they brought with them Fillory._

He shuffled the cards again, pulling out his charge’s favorite card, The King of Hearts, and, with a flick of the wrist, made it promptly disappear and reappear in his own ear. The creature laughed in amusement and began to instruct him on what trick he wanted to see next. The Jailer deftly complied, producing a stack of three coins from his pocket and making them move between his hands, pockets and other places through both sleight of hand and minor magic.

As he slipped one coin from his left hand into his sleeve, his mind wandered to what he could now remember of Fillory. He could see the throne room, the bright white mirror of the very room he sat in, filled with his friends and all the wonders the world had to offer. Margo and Eliot sat on their thrones. Alice sat nearby with her nose in a book. Penny and Kady lounged on the bench near the exit toward the gardens. Josh sat on the floor dragging on a bong. And there was Julia, bathed in beautiful white light.

In a few hours, maybe days, the gods’ mistake would grow weary. He would sit with him until he rested and then, in complete silence and with great care not to be noticed, the Jailer of Blackspire would slip away to his secret library where, for maybe an hour, he could become Quentin Coldwater again.

Then he would pray to Our Lady of the Tree.


End file.
